


My Broken Angel

by Hushabye_my_darling



Category: Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Angst, F/M, Suspicion of infidelity, allusion to a secret past
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 10:09:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8886877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hushabye_my_darling/pseuds/Hushabye_my_darling
Summary: Two damaged people meet by chance. What happens when a remnant from a clouded past intrudes on the new life they have made together? Is love enough?





	

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas' past threatens to destroy his chance at a new life with Claire.

Claire moved slowly about the room, running a hand along the smooth surface of the mahogany dresser, letting the fringe of the silk lampshade slide between her fingers. She paused before the narrow side table and picked up the delicate ornament that sat in solitude on a piece of crocheted lace. The figure’s head tilted down towards its chest, the serenity of its face in stark contrast to the strength of the emotions playing across Claire’s.

Unwanted memories fought their way to the surface . . .She caught him staring at her—a tall, slender man with blonde, carefully tamed curls. When she retreated to the garden, he found her there, his intelligent eyes containing a weariness surprising in someone so young. She felt no fear, only curiosity. . . .He took her hand and led her down to a large fig tree. “Dance with me." There was no music, only the sound of the wind blowing through the large branches. They moved together, his hand caressing her through the soft fabric of her dress as he hummed softly against her ear. “I love you, Claire.” . . . The air was filled with the drone of cicadas and the smell of eucalypts as they walked hand in hand to the cabin. It was the last day of their honeymoon. Two weeks of flowing conversation interspersed with periods of companionable silences, of frantic, fumbling sex under the summer sky, and long nights of slow, glorious love-making. He paused at the foot of the steps to the cabin. "I was lost." He gave her an intent look. "Not anymore." . . .She unwrapped his carefully packaged gift, revealing a porcelain angel clasping a heart to its breast. “My heart is in your hands, my angel,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to each of her palms before placing them over his chest. . . .

Returning the angel to its home, she wrapped her arms tightly around her aching chest, shutting her eyes against the memory of his touch—of the feel of his body moving over hers.

The sound of tyres on gravel startled her and drew her to the window. He was home early. No time to prepare. No time to rehearse a calm response to his inevitable questions. No time to bury the pain.

Claire sank onto the chair and waited.

 

 

The text from Claire’s aunt had urged him to hurry home. No reason was given but Thomas felt the worry behind the words.

She'd been distracted this past week. Working long hours, trying to get the business on its feet, she had been asleep by the time he dragged himself home and there had been little opportunity for conversation before he rushed off the next morning—no chance to draw out the cause. Thomas mentally kicked himself. He should have found the time to talk to her.

The house was silent. He followed the light scent of oil paint and solvent to her studio, expecting to find her there. It was her haven, a place to express feelings she had been told all her young life to repress. The easel stood empty, a discarded canvas leaning against the waste basket.

Carefully, deliberately, he checked each of the downstairs rooms finding them untouched, curtains still drawn.

Fighting the rising panic, he climbed the stairs to their bedroom, fearing what he would find.

A wave of relief hit him when he saw her. She was sitting despondently at the window of their bedroom, a half-packed suitcase lying open on the bed.

“Where are you going?”

Claire straightened her back, squaring her shoulders. “I’m leaving,” she said, her voice breaking slightly.

Thomas felt the blood drain from his face. “Leaving! Why?”

She turned her head towards him, the emptiness in her eyes replaced by a brief flash of some strong emotion he couldn't identify. Lifting her chin, she said “You know why.”

His tired brain struggled to find an answer. “Help me to understand,” he urged with a calmness he didn’t feel.

“My mother was right." said Claire, the pain evident in her voice. "I'm such a fool."

Thomas cursed in frustration. Damn that woman. What lies had she been feeding Claire now. "Claire, you know I would never do anything to hurt you.”

She looked at him thoughtfully. "Wouldn’t you?” she said softly. Turning back to the window, she whispered “I saw you together.”

Thomas' brow creased in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

Claire turned her head slightly towards him. "In the city last Friday,” she said. "I was with my mother."

Realisation dawned. He thought back to that day. It had been a catharsis for him, a chance to lay to rest some of the demons of his past. He hadn’t considered how it would look to someone unaware of the nature of the meeting.

He raked a hand through his hair. “I should have told you about her." He paused, rubbing a hand over his tired eyes. “I guess I should have told you a lot of things, but I’ve tried so hard to forget over the years, that it just didn’t seem important anymore. My past is . . . complicated. Maybe I was afraid you would judge me based on who I was. You and me, Claire, we were a fresh start.”

Claire continued to stare emotionlessly out the window, her hands twisting in her lap.

“It isn’t what you think, Claire," he said softly. Crossing the room slowly, Thomas reached out to stroke her cheek. “Claire…”

Recoiling from the touch of his hand, she took a violent swing at his arm, jumping up from the chair and knocking it back against the side table. Too late, she thrust out her hand to steady the delicate figurine that stood at its centre. They both watched helplessly as it tumbled onto the tiled floor, shattering into hundreds of tiny pieces.

 

 

Thomas took a deep breath to calm himself. He should have been prepared—should have known that her past had made her vulnerable to self-doubt. Claire was too important to him to risk losing her through careless behaviour or poorly chosen words.

It was her stillness that had drawn him to her. Years of travelling and the unpredictable nature of his work had left him jaded and craving a constancy that had been lacking in his life for too long. Rekindling a relationship with an old flame, he found himself once again surrounded by the kind of people he had grown so weary of: the self-absorbed, predatory and ambitious. As the relationship stagnated, he found himself searching for an elusive cure for the restlessness that had begun to stir within him.

He had reluctantly agreed to go to the charity luncheon, the invitation accepted and paid for before he had acknowledged that it was time to move on. Scanning the room, it seemed to him that the objective of the majority of attendees tended towards personal promotion rather than any actual philanthropic action.

That was when he saw her. She was sitting with—but slightly apart from—a group of women who had their heads bent together and who were speaking conspiratorially in semi-hushed tones. Occasionally, one of them would bark something at her and she would respond with a quiet, steady voice, eyes drifting longingly to the door to the garden as the attention turned once again away from her. Every so often, a slight smile would curve her lips in response to something that was said, but she did not willingly join in the conversation.

She glanced up, catching him watching her, holding his gaze for a moment before dropping her eyes, a faint blush colouring her cheeks. The surge of desire hit him unexpectedly, tempered by an overwhelming wish to protect her from the evils of this world—evils of which he was only too painfully aware. Realising he was still staring, he turned his attention to his companions, trying to focus on the discourse.

The mundane, gossip-filled discussion fuelled by free-flowing wine washed around him. He allowed himself a glance in the direction of her chair only to find it empty. He was surprised at the disappointment he felt, recognising a need to know more about the woman behind the knowing eyes. Excusing himself, he escaped to the welcoming quiet of the gardens, following a path that led him away from a world of which he knew he no longer wanted to be a part.

She was sitting on a low wall, her back against a marble statue of Apollo, eyes closed, her hands clasped gently in her lap. Startled by the sound of his approach, she stiffened and frowned at the intrusion. She reluctantly opened her eyes and her face registered surprise when she saw him standing there. He smiled gently, sliding his hands non-threateningly into his pockets. Intelligent eyes scrutinised his face before she settled once again against the marble, shyly smiling back.

That night he had moved out, an unexpected new path forming before him and leading inexorably to Claire.

Thomas watched as the emotions played across her face. He felt the change even before the tirade began, her pain and rage swirling about him, wrapping itself tightly around his chest.

 

 

For over a year, Claire had quashed the doubts each time they threatened to rise to the surface, but they were always there, festering under a façade of contentment, and as Thomas’ new venture forced him to spend more and more time away, they had become harder to contain.

Her mother and sisters began to raise questions about the frequent separations. Throw-away comments and the usual snide remarks had further weakened Claire’s control over her fears. Shopping with her mother, she had spotted Thomas at the café. He was looking intently at his companion, a blonde-haired woman whose hand he was stroking slowly with his thumb. Claire’s mother had clicked her tongue and smiled triumphantly.

"I told you so."

The shattered angel was the final straw. Claire felt the dam break and the words, too long contained, spilled from her lips in a raging torrent of pent-up hurt and humiliation. A lifetime of disparaging comments and denied affection fuelled the deluge: every cruel word, every condescending look, every sneer. Claire’s fractured heart could no longer contain the nagging doubt.

How could he love someone like her?

 

 

Thomas focussed on the flow of angry words. The fire in Claire’s eyes had turned their usual soft blue to vivid violet, her russet brown hair piled ruthlessly on her head and carelessly pinned, flashed red in the light from the window. With each irritated toss of her head, wild curls loosed themselves from their fastenings and fell rebelliously about her shoulders. The palpability of her pain and fury weighed down on him. At least words were being spoken, even if they were in anger. So much better than the cold, heavy silences of the past week.

It had been a mistake to agree to the meeting without telling Claire. He had shared very little about his past, the tragedy in Antibes one of many painful chapters in his life that he thought he had closed long ago. He should have known that the hateful gossips would twist it into something other than what it was, dripping poison into Claire’s ears.

He waited for the words to end, knew to wait until the well had run dry and every fear and doubt had been laid out before him. Stepping forward, he lifted an errant curl from her cheek, tucking it carefully behind her ear before softly sliding his fingers along the curve of her jaw. Gently tilting her chin, he waited until she raised her eyes to his.

"She is . . . was . . . the wife of someone I knew long ago. Nothing more."

Thomas sighed. It was time to dismantle the shell he had built around himself.

"There is a lot we have to talk about. You have a right to know—you should know. I thought I was protecting you. I was wrong." He looked directly into her eyes. “There hasn’t been anyone but you since the day we met in the garden, my love, and there never will be. It’s you and me, Claire.”

Clear blue eyes regarded his, searching for the lie and finding none. He ran his fingers slowly down her cheek, caressing her lower lip with his thumb.

“Always”.


End file.
